


Dust

by beautysupreme



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-16
Updated: 2014-06-16
Packaged: 2018-02-04 23:19:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1797010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beautysupreme/pseuds/beautysupreme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Memories, fantasies, and desires can be kicked up like dust; surrounding and consuming us.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dust

Trevor tossed the package in the rear pit of the crop duster before hoping into the cockpit; his hands resting on the hull. He chewed his bottom lip in a fervor as he glanced toward the direction of his trailer; as if he could see that serpentine asshole through the distance and dilapidated walls. He was beyond the point of irritated at the mess of a man that sat smugly on his couch. Michael’s ability to instantly forget self indiscretions had always made his skin crawl. 

He palmed at himself, irritated that his erection from the previous night had come back up. Even through his rage, he was still hard just thinking about it. One or two stabs at the thin veneer Michael put up was really all it had ever took, and that hadn't changed. A few bottles of beer and some seemingly innocent brushes of knees against one another later, Michael was spilling his guts about just how repressed he was. Old memories and emotions rose and scattered like dust.

Trevor leaned against the plane and slipped his hand inside his pants as he recalled the weight of the other man on his lap. His finger twitched from the memory of how badly he had wanted to rip the seams from those expensive fucking slacks. A slew of perversions overtook his mind, some stemming from actual memories and others mere fantasies, all involving a submissive Michael Townley. 

A young twenty-something Michael with cum on his face and swollen lips under the bleachers of his old high school football field. Drunken late-twenties Michael looking at him from across the room instead of the stripper writhing in his lap. Michael spread eagle on a cheap motel bed. 

The way Michael would look down at him and just how his lips would quiver when getting head. An apologetic, pathetic, tear stained Michael on his knees in that meat factory. Looking up at him and begging for forgiveness. 

Walking in on Michael in the trailer he and Amanda shared when she was pregnant with their first child, months after he told him he couldn't fool around anymore - that he had to be the straight father figure society wanted him to be - lying on his back with two fingers thrusting in and out of his needy hole. The way he'd looked at him, like he was unsure if he was fantasizing. How his mouth silently formed, “Please”, before he pulled him on top of him when he walked toward the bed. 

The way his hand slid up his thigh when fleeing from the cops. How he looked at him when he was pressed against the wall as shrapnel from a Merriweather grenade flew around them; the mixture of anger and desire in those blue eyes as he thrust into the hand that snaked its way between their bodies. When he looked him over as he brushed his thigh against his in the back of Franklin's car in the middle of a getaway. 

Trevor pulled his cock from the confines of his jeans, giving it two quick pumps. He let go, moaning as he felt the weight of it as it bobbed in the air. Trevor spit in his hand and returned to the task at hand, slicking himself up and working at a faster rhythm.

The CB crackled to life, “T, you ready to make the drop? The clients are getting impatient.”


End file.
